Twin Speaks - The Rise and Fall and the Rise and Fall of Jedward

We meet at an undisclosed Dublin hotel, which he enters via a service door to the rear. Maybe it’s habit, a reflex action from the time when he used to be mobbed just about everywhere he went, but he needn't be so covert - unrecognisable from his former teen-idol self, he could pass through a crowd with ease nowadays. Gone is the signature blond spike/quiff and brightly coloured jumpsuit, replaced instead with a shaved head, goatee and what looks a little like a Nazi tattoo.

I start by asking where his partner-in-crime is, his once inseparable and biological doppelganger, with whom he entertained millions in the halcyon days of 2010. His face drops.

“I haven’t seen The Other One since 2012” He says, sliding back into his chair.

“We were at a bbq at Marty Whelan’s and he started getting really rowdy, throwing the patio furniture over the wall and calling Twink a ‘bastard’ so I told him to cop himself on. We were supposed to be doing a gig for Swizzle Sticks the next morning, but he didn’t turn up. I got a text from him that just said “up urs bro }:-(” and that was that.”

He voice breaks, and he looks to an invisible force above. I allow him gather his breath, and ask him if he knew where he’d gone?

“There was all sorts of rumours. One minute he was living in Derek Mooney's garage. Then I heard he’d been seen puking up Candyfloss on the Waltzers in Funderland. Someone else said he’d joined ISIS”

His head sinks lower and he continues...

“We were searching for a while. Twink helped out, but we couldn’t find him. We went to Derek Mooney's with the Guards to search the garage, but the body the Guards found there wasn’t his. Then I was all set to go to Iraq and look for him, but Louis tol..…”

Just then we’re interrupted by a fan. She squeals in excitement, and asks him to sign her bra. He less than enthusiastically obliges, and gives one of her breasts a half-hearted, limp wristed squeeze

“Things like this remind me of him most” He says as he squeezes nonchalantly

“We used to grab one each and play a little tune with them. Now, it’s just me, going around touching women up and whistling to myself”

When he’s finished his rendition of “Waterline” and eventually lets go of the fan, I ask him why he refers to his brother as “The Other One?”

“To be honest, I’ve forgotten his name. I mean, it’s one or the other but y’know?

I guess that means I’ve forgotten my own name. Maybe I’m the one that’s missing!”

His pained expression shows no sign of easing, and all this soul searching is causing his brow to furrow deeper.

“I still see him. Every time I look in the mirror, there he is”

I remark that he is looking at is his own reflection, but understandably, the concept of this idea is a little too much for a man in such a state of mind.

“Linda Martin used to say we were like twins. And we were. Now, we’re like strangers”

5 Years ago, Jedward were everywhere. They charmed the Eurovision (and the planet) not only once, but twice. Children everywhere had ‘jedward’ hair and sales of Twix rocketed. Now, in the blink of an eye, they’re a mere footnote to the reality-crazed early 2010’s.

“I sort of went back to what I did best. Pop music. I did a new album, and learned some cool new dances. It was good to dust off the old moves, but the album didn’t really do well and I ended up having to sell a load of things, like my parents house, and the dog.”

I ask him about the the record. “KX-129, Digital Soundspraying & A Wolf for Prime Minister” was an ambitious, sprawling set of ‘pieces’ that he recorded late last year with renowned producer Brian Eno.

“Louis headbutted Brian on the first day and came back on the second with Liberty X and tried to finish him off. But he fought him off and jumped over a wall. Then Louis snuck into the studio that night, and taped over all the recordings with just like screaming and him yelling “lalalala”.

Eno actually loved it when he heard it and they now share a flat.”

I finish by asking him a question that I knew would tug firmly at the heart-strings, especially with the time of year (Christmas) and the themes of reconciliation, happiness, and family that come with it.

Is there anything (or anyone) that he wants for Christmas this year?

A tear forms, and he supports his head with his hands. Words stumble slowly from his mouth, and his hunched body seems to mirror the anguish within. He coughs to try and clear the passages, but instead his voice cracks to a tiny high-pitched “Weeeeeeeee”. It’s emotional, and raw.

“I’d…I’d….. Oh god… I’m sorry…. I’d love, you know… Christmas… I’d, really REALLY love…. Sorry, I mean... “

Tears now flow freely, his quivering voice hits several different registers, rather surprisingly actually. He is hurting. This is half a man. And he always will be, without the brother that he loved, and still loves. Laid bare. Broken. In tears. I offer a comforting hand, and tell him to take his time. And he blurts it out. Like a volcano of pent up emotion, the words come spilling from his tortured soul in an eruption.

“I’d….I’d…  love… I’d really…. I'D REALLY LOVE AN XBOX!!”

The interview ends.

Jed, from Jedward, is selling of some of his footwear at the Ballyhaunis Car Boot Sale this Saturday from 7am.

A moan again, naturally

Dublin:

The Irish are at it again!

Now that the big sister Britain is saying goodbye, little Ireland has been crying. Our Dublin based person reports that a great many of the ordinary folk assembled in the civic quarters of the capital city, and launched into a march towards the centre of power on Saturday. This rally, which occurred during a rare pause in the falling of rain, was a collective of many thousands of natives, all with angry looks on their faces. The cause of this anger? Non existent taxes!

Yes, you read it perfectly fine. The Irish, who once famously starved and then moved to America, all because of a stubborn desire for nothing but a potato, stormed the government district to protest against a tax that is not being imposed! Excuse me, but my editor is laughing in a hard way over there. Even more amazing, 90% of the protesters are in receipt of various forms of special government support and don’t pay any taxes anyway! Imagine if the noble and obedient residents of Bonn suddenly gathered in many millions to say no to a strudel levy, even though there is no strudel levy or plans to introduce such a strudel levy!

All of the friendly EU countries (apart from poor Ireland) currently asks the people for taxes for water, because thanks to the functioning education systems and a lack of ignorance in their heads, there is a collective understanding that clean and fresh water for drinking requires much investment with money. In Ireland however, the same people who like to have all their workdays free and easy for leisure activity, and also like to travel to public drinking parties on government provided bus cards, believe that water literally falls from the skies! Ha ha, okay Brendan, why don’t you drink your tasty water from that green bucket outside the door?

An EU spokesman said: “We gave Ireland billions of Euro to save its economy, and they literally pissed it over a bridge. The only thing we asked is that they impose a completely reasonable Water Tax, in line with the rest of Europe, to pay for essential services, supply and maintenance. They haven’t done it. Unfortunate for them, considering that their great ally, the UK, is now exiting the EU. Let see how many Mushroom’s the Belgians buy off them. Or the demand in Estonia for Kerrygold. I wonder too, will Radio Belgrade be requiring Ryan Tubridy's services as a summer stand-in? Basically, I’m saying hard border, full customs and a return to the Ireland of 1981. Bagatelle and all”

In defence, the fuhrer of the ‘right to water’ movement, addressing his adoring but naive public from the behind section of a truck and shouting  in an accent that this German reporter found difficult to understand, more or less said “I arranged this anti-water tax march to keep my profile up and ensure votes in the next election”. The crowd all jumped up and down, and frothed like diseased Pinschers as his voice went to loud. “No way, we won’t pay” they chanted, like ghost children in a scary Irish version of the Pied Piper “No way, we won’t pay... “

For anything it would seem.

Klaus Katershul, Dublin.

A Load of Rubbish

Here’s something I nearly posted, but didn’t. It probably made more sense back in the those ‘recessionary times’ of 2012, and in particular when Greyhound bins took over the refuse collection in Dublin City Centre. Hopefully it’ll have you misty eyed with nostalgia.

How to recover from a recession - One man's refuse is another man’s redemption

Sharing is caring, and rather than binning that crusty carrot because you have enough carrots in your carrot based dish, why not allow another person enjoy it?

Usually, in a non-third world society, people throw stuff in the bin that they don’t need. This ‘refuse’ is normally whisked away to a local dump to be lost forever. Not anymore. Thanks to the kind souls at Greyhound, bins are now left ‘in situ’ for a number of weeks, offering generous and ample opportunity for people to have a good old root and decide what they’d like to take from it. These bags of gratis-goodness are there for all to enjoy, on every corner of this city.

Your stale cornflakes, is another man's luxury breakfast. Your read newspaper is another man's duvet. Your used condom, a child's kite.

Back in the 19^h century, eating from bins wasn’t so taboo, and why should it be now! They certainly didn’t have a recession (other than a potatoey one maybe) and we should take lessons from that. And if that wasn’t reason enough, apparently getting your dinner from a bin causes plague too, instantly reducing the numbers claiming welfare.

But, shouldn’t we live in a society that doesn’t have to rely on bin foraging to survive? Of course we should, but we should also live a society that doesn't leave bags of rotting, disease breeding, filth everywhere too.

TV3 and BBC NI Spring Schedules

Written down on a pack of Major, and secretly delivered to Disgrace in an infamous Glory-Hole in Supermacs Galway, TV3 have launched their latest Spring schedule. I think you’ll agree, emigration has never seemed so desirable.

Also, after receiving a coded message from a raspy voiced Ulster-man, we can also reveal the new BBC Northern Ireland listings, under the threat of death of course.

BBC NI Spring Season Highlights:

The Sex Counties – A province divided by religion, yet unified by its love of all things carnal. Tonight, borders prove no barrier to romance, when a man attaches a telescopic device to his wee member and makes relations with a catholic in Dundalk

Border Collie – Crime drama about a dog who patrols the border crossing in Monaghan. Tonight: Ringo (that’s his name) is run over by train

Pipe Up! – Celebrating the best in local pipe bands. Today we meet the Falls Road Pipers, who quickly demonstrate that rather than ‘blowing pipes’ for musical enjoyment, they prefer to ‘blow up’ pipe bombs, for killing enjoyment - Featuring ‘Shultz’s Apricot Sonata’ on brass.

Orange Orders – CCTV footage of people ordering orange drinks from various pubs in the province

NI on film –‘ The Lord, the Lover and the Massive Car Bomb’ – Emotional tour-de-force about a want-away lord, who falls in love, buys a car and gets blown up. The twist is that it’s not necessarily in that order!

The Northern Irish News from Northern Ireland on BBC northern Ireland (not available in Northern Ireland) – News Flash – Man shows arse on bus in Belfast, sheep gives birth to chicken in Down and multiple decapitations at Windsor Park fail to ruin Milk Cup final

UTV news accidentally broadcast on BBC NI news – A Catholic wins a fun run in Manor-quigley, two tourists are released unharmed from a warehouse in Lugran and Gerry Kelly reveals his darkest secret

Sports results – Fermanagh Cowboys have beaten the Crossmaglen Paedos in a game of Hockey, whilst a group of youths have beaten some old people in a game of violence. Also, Linfield have done stuff too.

Snow Patrols Gary Lightbody talks about... Marxism – Soppy song-smith Gary Lightbody performs acoustic renderings of favourite Marxist mantras. Tonight, ‘The Giants Causeway is ours forever’ and ‘Give a Southy Some Celery’

TV3: Spring has sprung:

Hammered! – Saucy Ulster comedy. Finbar’s decision to rent an inflatable castle from the Orange Order Children’s Party Commission because it was cheaper than the other options goes off without a hitch, but when it explodes, killing all his children, he’s left staring at the saved pennies with a forlorn look on his face. Meanwhile, ‘up the road’. Angus is left in a quandary, sorry, I mean, Angus is left in a QUARRY. His body, that is.

Tullamore Housewives – Inspired by hit US show ‘Real Women of South California’ TV3 launch their new reality based TV show about the world of Tullamore Wives (Twilfs) – Tonight, Bernie bakes a cake for the GAA fundraiser, Bridget slips in silage and damages her elbow and Concepta’s son surprises everyone by stealing his father’s legally held shotgun and holding up a Centra

Half Past Seven – Entertaining look at a clock at exactly half past seven

Sing like you’re whinging – Talent show where we forgo the talent and concentrate on the back-stories that make us all cry. Tonight Brian from Galway dazzles us with his show of grief for his dead grandmother before breaking down during a clay pottery demonstration, and a former Christian brothers priest arrives on stage to entertainingly confess some heinous crimes before breaking down backstage in an emotional display of expert juggling

Peig Sayers on... – The legendary Islander is resurrected (Mark Cagney in charity shop women’s clothing and his wife's make-up) to interview some of Irelands most important PUBLIC figures about important issues – Tonight Peig talks to Brian Kennedy about the Buttevant train disaster and probes Enda Kenny about.. Well, actually, she just probes him.

GEE – TV3  presents the Irish version of the (s)hit US show Glee – (might want to delete the ‘s’ there before publishing, LOL – Ed) – Head of Irish Special Olympics Mary Davis is the guest star and immediately finds offence in the performance of the ABBA classic ‘the winner takes it all’ suggesting that everyone should get a prize. Also some shit people sing some shit songs for all the shits out there that like shit TV

Mrs Whites Boys – TV3’s thinly veiled ‘homage’ to RTE’s Mrs Browns boys’ gathers apace in the latest episode entitled ‘It’s all White!’- Barry accidentally leaves chewing gum on the toilet seat leading his mother to get stuck during her morning constitutional. Cue hilarity, and a life changing punch line, ‘I’m stuck on the jacks’

Premiere – Proud to announce that TV3 are the first terrestrial network in the world to show the latest Angela Lansbury movie ‘Tears of my daughter’ – Filmed in 1986 but not given a release until 2008, this taught thriller stars Ted Danson as a man who believes his daughter is the reincarnation of his dead wife, even though his wife is not dead, and he has no daughter. Cue much suspicion from his wife (Angela Lansbury) and his daughter (also played by Angela Lansbury) and Angela Lansbury who is played by both his wife and daughter. (1986, Dir. Fred West. Sepia)

Hammered - The NI comedy is back with a bang. Literally, the entire cast is killed by a car-bomb, left in a car, outside the studio. Which ironically had a strictly no car-bomb policy!

Gary Glitter on.. Two little boys – Singing superstar Gary Glitter tells us why he loves two little boys, the hit song made famous by Rolf Harris

Occupy Dame Street

RTE news tonight carried a piece about the various ‘Occupy’ protests that are currently happening around the globe. They had footage of London, and particularly, New York, yet they didn’t even mention the Cork or Dublin tent-ins. They told of how the authorities in the UK and US have issued eviction notices and moved protestors on. They never even showed a shot of our Dame Street mini-Butlins. This is a damning, yet fair summary of the success of the Occupy Dame Street movement. It has been a tragic failure and total embarrassment.

In my opinion, protest begins at home. You march against things that affect you. You raise an objection to something that impacts your way of life, your continued existence or that of those closest to you. And in this respect, I’m all for protesting. If the Government banned outright ‘instant noodles’ or ‘Tyskie beer’, I’d be pitch-forking my way down Kildare Street first thing tomorrow. But they haven’t. They have however given loads of cash to the banks, and cut a lot of people’s income to fund it. Nasty, in fairness - I’d nearly get out and walk for that, but then again, my income hasn’t actually been cut. It’s the same as it was before all this started.

And you know, the majority of the Occupy Dame St gang haven’t been affected either. Last time I checked the price of tobacco and second hand knitwear hadn’t exactly risen to record levels. Sure, news of massive hand-outs to bankers and huge pensions to those responsible occasionally has me pulling a disapproving face, but that’s only because some of that money is mine. It’s totally selfish. If it was yours alone, I’d urge them to demand more. And take your house too. But that’s me. 

ODS are fighting for an end to ECB control over the country, which is admirable. But like I always say, when I’m on a bus I prefer a trained bus driver to be behind the wheel, no matter how much of a prick he is. It’s simply a case of tough luck. We voted some people in, they weren’t very good, things went shit and they fumbled around. It happens. We then voted someone else in, things stayed shit and they literally keep slipping in it. Tough luck again. It certainly doesn’t help when our happy camper protesters are shitting into buckets and then drunkenly trying to deposit them into drains along Dame Street. They’re literally just adding to it. 

Of course, they real problem with our Hi-De-Hi Central Bank tourists is that they haven’t lost anything in the first place. Most of them (and I have been observing from the window of Sweeney’s pub btw) haven’t lost jobs, got bogged down by insane mortgages or had to sell off the decking in the first place. They are simply professional hippies. They hug trees, read Russian literature and make love to each other dressed as druids in full moonlight, before nipping off to the nearest Centra to stock up on Cider and Guinness. Then they get the last bus home, leaving their tents unoccupied.  Yeah, they return the following morning full of intent and they bang pots, make banners and masturbate into their beards, but we’d all do too that if it was easy.

Like all this ‘he had to go to Australia, sniffle’ rubbish that we hear all the time, when it’s a well known rites of passage for Irish school leavers to head down under anyway. It means nothing. This is why RTE haven’t been bothered to cover them. They’re not real. They don’t live in our world.

If they did they’d put down their yogurt, cut their hair and go looking for a fucking job.

TV3 Autumn Schedule 2011

From the ‘beating house’ of a former Magdalene Laundry, TV3 announced their new season in great style. With a heavy emphasis on programmes focusing on the recent horrific clerical abuse scandals, a few eyebrows were raised when the ‘Singing Priest’ was chosen to host the launch. These raised eyebrows soon turned to ‘lowered pants’ when Aidan Cooney arrived with the cans. 

The more reflective than usual schedule was littered with moral touch-points. The importance of community, age respect, and responsible young people’s programming, learning through enjoyment and badly reproduced British TV that was badly produced on British TV in the first place. 

Fancy some breakfast? - Lively morning show presented by Sinead Desmond. In episode one, Sinead meets DIY expert and convicted sex offender Brian O'McLoody who claims to be fully reformed and is now a committed ornithologist. To prove this he demonstrates how to create an inexpensive bird house and feeder from random household items. He also shows us how to build a bird house that not only doubles as a sex chamber with bird feeder abilities, but also as sex chamber for birds that can be made from random household items

Kicking the Habit – Documentary about the brutal assault of a Nun in Clonakilty in 1975. 

Why I love... Apples – Weekly series where we ask famous super-cool celebrities to explain what they love about life. Tonight, super-cool celebrity clones Jedward struggle to come to terms with the concept of fruit

Nuns with Willies – Odd couple Willie Nelson and Willie Thorne come together to spend a month living with the divine sisterhood of Mary Angelo in Ballincrosby. As well as learning the skills, and the dedication required to be a ‘woman of god’, they form an unexpected bond and the basis for a new show ‘I love Willies’, one Nuns emotional response to living with the mega-stars

Body of Christ, Christ what a body – Ex Mr Ireland Jake O’Neill presents a frank and sobering tale of clerical abuse in Ireland. Tonight he meets a victim of Paedophile cleric Malachy O’Frockcock and questions the broader role of society in dealing with abuse, and visits an ex-priest turned fashionista who now designs tank tops and shorts for boys, rather than touching them inappropriately

The Weather – Big fucking clouds

Celebrity erection in a Londis - Reality show featuring some of Ireland’s most iconic celebrities all battling for the honour of sporting the largest erection in a convenience store. Tonight, Amanda Brunker’s gender is questioned after winning by a good 3 inches.

Hammered! -The Six-County laugh-a-thon is back. In today’s slab of grimly funny northern life, peace breaks out. Full time bigot Alistair hugs a catholic in a bakery, whilst ‘’over the wall’, Brendan whistles a traditionally ‘orange’ tune at a bus stop, and gets off with a jovial light beating

Film – Dangerous Relations – Angela Lansbury stars in this VHS conversion about a woman who realises her husband isn’t who he appears to be (she check’s his passport) and so she cuts up all of his ties, leaving him tieless at the national tie convention of America. She also has a wheelchair bound daughter who has a speech impediment.

Late Night TV – a transvestite, who only pops on women’s clothing after midnight, explains why he/she is a late night TV – Sponsored by Flahavans.  Porridge, for transvestites.

Twink and you’ll miss it – High octane footage of Adele King (Twink) going by the camera really really fast. In this episode she speeds along on a pair of a roller-skates down Thomas Street

Fr. Brian Darcy’s ‘late night spook-a-thon’ - Tonight: the classic Romanian horror ‘Haunted Ghost,’ in glorious colour (1946 B&W). In a different take on the traditional poltergeist film, a ghost is terrorised by a ghost. The twist, well we might as well tell you as none of you will be watching - He’s haunted by the ghost of a ghost, but not just any ghost, but the ghost of a ghost who was once haunted by his OWN ghost. Christopher Nolan eat your heart out! Complicated, image heavy but ultimately shit. Followed by the draw for the Rehab lottery

Saint Christopher – Timely memoriam for the visionary director Christopher Nolan, who somehow found himself reading the TV3 listings and ate his own heart out, as suggested. Contributions from Christopher Nolan himself, which nicely adds a complicated twist to the whole thing

Maxi Priest – RTE Broadcasting legend ‘Maxi’ trains to become a priest in this show so she does.

Oh, Áras

Who is Batman’s favourite singer? Why it’s Dana Dana Dana Dana of course. 

Why is she in the news Disgrace?

Well, Dana, the bright-eyed, cute as a button songstress who once won the hearts of all of Europe, is thinking of running for the Áras. Despite having a voice that would melt something really difficult to melt, like concrete, and a gentle, motherly demeanour, Dana also has some hardened moral views on literally, all kinds of everything. She is a rural conservative. She is a died-in-the womb, sorry, wool, Right-winger. Amongst her Righty agenda is her passionate anti-abortion stance, a vocal denouncement of divorce, condemnation of the evils of contraception and many, many appearances on the All-Ireland talent show.

I liked the All-Ireland talent show. That Daithi fella is a ride... but anyway, what’s her agenda?

Her campaign will rightly be based on her strong moral views, but she will also point to her inspiring promotion of culture too. She once launched a pro-life art competition, in which every entry probably had paintings of babies in a bin with a floating, mournful ‘Why?’ above them, and as a judge on the All-Ireland talent show she introduced the nation that a host of marching bands and non-threatening musical acts. According to this site ‘she is a devout Catholic who has used her great talents as a musician to praise the Lord and teach the faith’. She would probably not refer to Daithi as a ride though, more likely say that he’d make a great priest.

Will she be our new toothless, ceremonial-only, overlord?

Well, unlike possibly more famous right-wingers, she actually did conquer Europe once. Her song, ‘All Kinds of everything’ ('Alles Und Noch Viel Mehr' in German) was a worldwide sensation, and her place is history was confirmed. Also, in 2007 she grabbed 15% of the vote, so rule nothing out. David Norris' ill-fated campaign and subsequent withdrawal means we now face a centre-right president at best, or an extremist one at worst. It’s enough to make Daithi O-Se weep into his hake

How do I feel about it?

I tell you now, if she wins, I will smear myself in strawberry conserve (to symbolise the blood of the unborn), tie myself to the O’Connell monument (to symbolise the tight restraints of freedom) and sail naked on a raft down the Liffey to take my chances elsewhere (to symbolise sailing naked down the Liffey)

I like Jam, so wholesome and traditional.


Unfortunately, so do an awful lot of people in this country

Status Update

There are loads of reasons why I’ve just taken the calmly considered and maturely debated total drunken snap decision to delete my Facebook account. We all know that the vast majority of people who lurk around its seedy, holiday photo filled pages are nothing more than attention whores, sweaty keyboard perverts and/or GAA recruiters with little to do other than one handedly type their way to filthy gratification. The others are merely the trapped. The ones who need its sweet yet sour nectar to conduct reality on any sort of realistic reality based real scale.

I was, until now, trapped in Facebook. And like all of you, I sometimes dreamt of a world where it didn’t exist. Like Ganymede, one of the moons of Jupiter, which almost certainly doesn’t have social networking of any kind.

“So, why not just rid yourself of this weighty conundrum Disgrace”, nobody screams.

Well, hold on. I've had my finger hovering over ‘Delete ‘Facebook’ more times than an Archbishop has ‘Clear Browsing History’. I’ve narkily removed friends, regretted my drunken comments about Pandas and occasionally gone through party snaps of people that wouldn’t stop to check for a pulse if they’d found me in their garden with a pair of binoculars and an asphyxiation device. But I backed off. I hesitated. For some reason, I couldn’t function without my deeply soulless, unfulfilling and sometimes soul battering morning logins. If I didn’t know what the guy with the goatee who I used to work with but had totally forgotten about until we became online ‘friends’ had found that morning in the toilet, I’d be totally useless for the day.

“What did he find?” I’d have troubled myself with, without even knowing that he’d found anything because I wasn’t even on Facebook at all.

A couple of weeks ago I was chatting with one of very best real life friends and I remarked that I was friends with his real life ex, on Facebook. He wasn’t a member, never has been and he told me without embarrassment, that he never would be. We rambled a bit, and he sent me pictures of himself in his underwear etc when he mentioned that he thought she was seeing someone else. He wasn’t sure, and he was probably hoping she wasn’t. But I was sure. And she was. It was all over Facebook. I didn’t tell him, because (A) it would hurt him, and (B) it would probably introduce him to the tragic world of social networking, which in its most useful form is a snooping and stalking tool that quickly turns into an online paranoia machine. He didn’t need to be on it, and was lucky not to be. I deleted her as a friend and didn’t say a word. However, seeing as he reads this, I’m sure he’s now face down in his Weetabix, mumbling something about oblivion.

It’s nothing new.

In the past I’ve removed non-satisfying friends, lingering exes and so-so’s that I’ve worked with but it was always a near fruitless task. I once deleted a girl I worked with who’s only reason for existing seemed to be to pose in a doorway with her latest dress on, in one of her many hilariously titled ‘IT’S ALL ABOUT ME’ photo albums, only to find a friend request from her in my inbox an hour later.  I even stopped posting status updates and would just sporadically pop up a few ‘check-ins’, if only to prove I was still alive and then only if I happened to be near something hilarious and unexpected - Like ‘The Well Woman Clinic’ or, ‘A Job’. This, yet again, made me as fulfilled as a chronic porn addict whose Mickey had just fallen off in the shower. So, I did it.

I ‘deactivated’ my social network Facebook account thingy.

Of course, I’d love to say ‘I deleted it’ permanently or that  I ’Forever removed’ my account, but I did not. I can’t. Nobody can. Facebook says sorry to see you go, and then asks some nonchalant questions as to why you’re leaving, like some sort of subservient hand-beaten wife who’s just relieved you didn’t take the house with you, and it lets you drift off, half knowing you’ll be back anyway. If you ever login again, Facebook will suddenly start making parping noises and drop balloons whilst welcoming you back in a pathetic, almost embarrassing, attempt at repatriation.

‘We’ve been counting down the days until you came back!!!’ It’ll whimper, as it steals your vitals and sells them to Google.

If you don’t attempt to login again it’ll mail you and put on the puppy dog eyes. It’ll say ‘Weeee wissss wuuuu!!! Booooooo’ and/or create a vast terrorist background based on your identity and pass it on to the CIA. It’s that serious folks.

I’m a day into my latest attempt at ridding myself of the worst social scourge since the plague and already I’m seeing the benefits. I rang someone today. By telephone. We talked about stuff and I found out what they did yesterday. I would of course have known what they were doing yesterday quite easily if I still had Facebook, but when someone sexually abuses a dog and writes a bagpipe sonata about it, I prefer to hear about it, first hand.. And as I hung up on Westy, I thanked him for telling me.

Farewell Facebook (until Saturday, probably)